


Standing at the Gates of Hell

by SparkBeat



Series: Commissions [9]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Oral Sex, Prison, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-16 18:50:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9285374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkBeat/pseuds/SparkBeat
Summary: When Skids met the Commandant, he had no idea what was in store for him, or for his new roommate and friend. If they behave, and do as they're asked, then they'll be allowed to leave once Skids' work on the transporter is complete. But can the Commandant be trusted to keep his word? And will Quark last long enough to find out?A.K.A. I'm terribly horribly horrible to Skids and Quark and Tarn does terrible things to them. And they don't know if they like it or not.Mind the warnings, they're there for a reason!





	1. Skids

**Author's Note:**

> For [OwlCat-Poops](http://owlcat-poops.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, thank you!

Skids didn’t know why he was being shoved through the unassuming door into the Commandant’s office. He didn’t really  _ want _ to know, if he was honest with himself, and though behaving as a rule kept the Commandant of Grindcore lenient with him, he couldn’t keep the snarl out of his vocalizer when one of the guards shoved hard against the small of his back, pushing him further off balance so he fell to his knees just inside the doorway.

 

“That’s enough.” That voice sent shivers up his spine, and he cursed himself a coward when it took him an agonizingly long minute to raise his optics to meet those of the mech towering over him.

 

Scarlet optics burned bright behind the Decepticon sigil the Commandant chose to wear as a mask, but even with no visible mouth he could  _ feel _ the predatory grin slide like hot grease over his chipped and scratched paint, oozing into every crack and crevice.

 

Embarrassed at his own weakness, his shoulders hunched up around his audials as he found it impossible to keep optic contact any longer. He let his gaze slide away over the other’s mech’s left shoulder treads, skipping over the greyed out frames dangling from shackles on the wall without really taking them in. He’d seen them before. He knew their every mark, every knick and ding and scratch. He didn’t need to see them anymore.

 

But his optics stuck tight on one frame, slender and colorful compared to the massive frames casting shadows on either side.

 

“Quark!?”

 

The small scientist twitched, but didn’t raise his head from where it hung between his shoulders, or so much as flicker an optic at the sound of Skids’ voice.

 

He made to step forward, to….he didn’t even know, take the scientist down? The Commandant would never allow that. Comfort him? How? Touch his cheek, press as much false cheer into his field as he could, and hope that Quark forgot he was hanging between greyed frames in the office of the most terrifying mech in Grindcore? 

 

He didn’t get far before a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, fingers curling just short of painfully into his armor.

 

“Now Skids, where  _ are _ your manners? You didn’t even  _ greet _ me, so very rude of you.”

 

That voice sent chills down his spinal strut, no matter how often he heard his name on the other mech’s invisible lips these days.

 

“Let him down.” Skids was proud of himself, voice staying strong, no waver, as he turned in the Commandant’s loosened grasp to glare up into twin scarlet pinpoints behind that damnable mask. 

 

Long moments stretched out in silence, broken only by the shuddery gasps of Quark’s vents, the rattle of chains as he quailed in his bindings. The Commandant tilted his helm, staring down at Skids, waiting, maybe, for him to turn away, to cower, to apologize? He jutted his chin out, even though he couldn’t stop his plating from slicking down to his protoform to present as small a target as possible. For Quark, he could speak out. For Quark, he could go against this mech he had been obeying for what felt like far too long.

 

“Let him down. Or I stop working on your generator.”

 

“If you stop working on the generator, you’re of no more use to me than the recalcitrant scientist is. What’s to stop you from ending up next to him on my wall?” The Commandant pointed out, amusement thick in his voice. Skids’ plating flared up, an unconscious gesture to try and flick off the irksome mech’s field as it slid and slithered over his own in an unwanted, too familiar press that rankled him and made him grit his dentae till they creaked. 

 

“Nothing. But if you had someone able to fix your generator...I would have been ‘on your wall’ a long time ago, wouldn’t I?”

 

Another long pause, and he braced himself to be struck, for fingers to pry back his plating, wrap around his spark, and  _ squeeze _ till he popped and fizzled from existence. Or, if the other mech was feeling ‘merciful’, for a cannon blast to rip his frame apart and offline him instantly.

 

Then,

 

“He’s of no use to me. If you want to barter for him, I’d be willing to work out a deal.”

 

Even as he spoke, he knew he’d regret it.

 

“What kind of deal?”

 

Time froze, his awareness shrinking down till even Quark hovered only on the edge of his field, his focus solely on the mockingly kind mech who tapped his fingers against Skid’s shoulder.

 

_ Tap tap tap _ , a drumbeat that almost seemed to count down the seconds till he sold the last of his soul to the unmaker himself.

 

“If you do what I ask of you, not only will I let him down, but so long as you follow directions and please me...You’ll both get a pass out of here on the first trans-warp, once you get the generator up and running.”

 

That was … disturbingly vague at best. 

 

Taking his silence for the hesitation it was, the Commandant elaborated.

 

Kind of.

 

“To put your mind at ease, nothing I ask you to do will leave this room. Or be done outside this room.” He kept waiting to  _ feel _ that voice, every time the other mech spoke, but so far, the Commandant’s skill was reigned in, and the shiver of disgust running over his plating like rancid, used oil was from his own reaction and nothing more.

 

“That doesn’t help. At all. What are you asking me to do, here?”

 

“I’m asking for complete obedience, Skids. Isn’t that obvious?” His tone rankled. Not a ‘snuffing out your spark with a single word’ tone, more of a ‘patronizing a newspark’ tone.

 

He wasn’t sure if he would have preferred the other tone, to be honest.

 

But lifting his optics, he focused once more on Quark. Scuffed, dented, half starved Quark, who looked so fragile and  _ small _ , hanging between the greyed out miner frames, dangling from his wrists in cuffs so large they engulfed most of his forearm in their width.

 

“As soon as I get the generator fixed, we’re free to leave?”

 

“You have my word, Skids.”

 

“Then...you have mine.”

 

The hands on his shoulders pushed him forward then, and he caught himself against the wall, nose a mechanometer from the clattering, trembling plating of Quark’s abdominal armor. 

 

“You may let him down, Skids.” The imperious tone grated on his nerves, but he shunted the nasty words bubbling up into his vocoder aside in favor of focusing on the task at hand, numb fingers fumbling with the rusted pins holding heavy, old fashioned shackles in place around Quark’s thin wrists. Plating was already dented where the thick edges had dug in, and it took a few moments of fumbling before he could pin his cell mate to the wall with his own frame and undo the shackles blindly above his head, but in the end, he had the trembling, near catatonic scientist draped against his chest, clinging to his frame and muffling terrified sobs in his shoulder.

 

The platitudes and words of comfort poured from his vocalizer, but they were hollow, and everyone in the room knew it. 

 

The Commandant leaned forward in his seat, steepling his fingertips together in front of his face, studying them over the imposing mass of his desk with all its gruesome bits and pieces.

 

“Well?” Skids finally asked, once the silence had stretched on long enough to grate on his already raw nerves.

 

“Well, what?”

 

“Well, what do you want me to do? Can we go back to our cell,  _ sir? _ ” The honorific grated even more than usual, his complacency and contentedness at being useful even in this nightmare place worn away by fear and concern for his cell mate.

 

“Oh, no. No, not just yet, Skids. I have need of something from you first.” The Commandant purred, leaning forward over his steepled fingers to study them splayed there on the floor, optics burning cinders behind the shadows of the expressionless mask. 

 

“You see….I’ve been testing my talents on him, seeing as he has no other use here. Despite his fear, you’ll find his frame quite willing and aching for an overload. Now.”

 

“---” Skids opened his mouth, but no coherent sound came forth. He’d been expecting a lot of things. This was so far down on the list that it was nonexistent. 

 

“Go ahead. Touch him. You’ll see that I’m right.” There was no compulsion in the Commandant’s voice, and Skids wanted to curse him for that. If the mech had used his  _ voice _ , forced him to comply somehow, then he’d have someone to blame. Then it wouldn’t be  _ his _ fault. 

 

Quark had buried his face in Skids’ abdominal plating during the exchange, still shaking so hard his plating rattled, but when Skids haltingly slid a hand down his back, instead of flinching away he arched up into the broad palm against his aft. His plating was  _ scalding _ , and his field was a riot of  _ confusion/arousal/fear/heat _ **_/terror_ ** that made Skids’ processor ache. 

 

He wanted to stop, to at least  _ ask _ the little mech clinging so desperately to him what  _ he _ wanted, but the mech watching them so intently started to tap his fingers on the desktop. 

 

“Skids? Do you need further directions? I wasn’t aware that what I asked for was an incredibly difficult task.”

 

Skids wanted to speak, wanted to snarl, even. But his vocalizer errored out with a  _ skree _ of static feedback, and he winced, shook his head. No, no he most certainly did _ not _ need further direction, not from the Commandant, of all mechs. If he could just put the setting out of his mind, focus on Quark, blot out all the fear and panic in both their fields, he  _ could _ get through this. After all, Quark  _ was _ an attractive mech, slim and exposed and so so delicate compared to the frame styles he was used to, and it would be easy to  _ pretend _ the other mech wanted this, too, with the artificial  _ lust _ and  _ need _ in his field. 

 

Even as he was thinking that, his super learning abilities had kicked in, and his fingers were mapping out the spots on Quark’s plating that made the other mech squirm and whimper, the places that pushed the fear further from his field, replacing it with more  _ want/need/please _ . 

 

His let his optics wander, taking in the smooth curve of plating along Quark’s back as he arched and squirmed, pressing against Skids’ hands. 

 

Taking the smaller mech’s chin in one hand, he carefully tilted Quark’s head back till their optics could meet. The fear in his field, it was so discordant with the flush of purple spreading over his nose and cheeks, the glaze to those overly bright blue optics. Decision made, he plucked the cracked glasses from their perch on his face, and tucked them away in his empty subspace. Pumping as much  _ apology/comfort/safety _ into his field as he possibly could, he let go of Quark’s chin, allowing the other mech to bury his face once more in Skids’ lap. His now free hand started exploring in earnest, fitting into as many of the gaps and seams in the other mech’s armor as he could to trace connective cilla and pluck at sensitive wiring bundles. 

 

Even terrified and confused, with his field feeling more and more like that of a drugged mech, the noises Quark made whenever he hit on a particularly good spot were sinful, provocative, and he  _ hated _ himself for enjoying being the one to draw them from his static laden vocalizer. 

 

Glaring at the Commandant did no good, and he knew begging would be wasted effort, though he would sacrifice every last shred of his pride and beg if he thought there was even a  _ slight _ possibility it would save Quark from this humiliation. Instead, he let his gaze drop once more to that narrow waist, so small he could span it from hip to hip with one hand. That observation... _ didn’t _ help keep him objective. Quark was the kind of mech Skids’ would have happily attempted to pick up in a bar, in a club, on the street,  _ pits _ , even at  _ work _ , before the war. He’d always had a soft spot for thin-plated civilians, the smaller the better. Digging his fingers into a side seam, pressing firmly on the connective filaments there, he drank in the sight of Quark squirming and arching into his touch once more, hands balling into little fists against Skids’ thighs. 

 

Quark’s fans had been running nonstop since Skids had entered the room, but now his own joined the cacophony of noise, and  _ still _ it did nothing to drown out the sound of the small mech’s panel drawing aside. Skids froze, hand hovering just above the damp heat of his bared valve, and risked a look up at the Commandant.

 

“Continue.” Though he spoke to Skids, it was obvious the Commandant of Grindcore wasn’t looking at  _ him _ .

 

Once he realized that, it was an easy enough decision to fit both hands around Quark’s slim waist and lift him upright. 

 

“S- _ shktt _ -kids?” Quark grasped at his shoulders, seeking some semblance of grounding as his processor spun at the sudden change in positions.

 

“Shhh, I’ve got you Quark. Just relax...think about...about whoever you left behind, ok?” That was a  _ terrible _ suggestion, but the best he could come up with as he laid Quark out on his back and drew skinny, trembling thighs up over his shoulders to hook in the gap between his doorwings and his neck. It was an incredibly convoluted, uncomfortable position, one he’d normally not choose unless his partner was on the edge of the berth so he could kneel instead of resting his weight on his bumper with them all but hanging off him, but he found himself unsurprisingly greedy, not wanting to share this sight with the mech clearly intent on psychologically torturing the poor scientist for no other reason than for the fun of it.

 

And besides, it was no chore to press his mouth against slick, plump valve folds, slip his glossa between them, and flick over Quark’s charge swollen external node. Heels dug into the swivel joints of his door wings as Quark  _ squeaked _ , clapping both hands over his face, his entire face a nearly uniform bright purple blush now. 

 

Now  _ that _ reaction was  _ interesting _ . He repeated the motion, a careful little flick of his glossa that drug the very tip of it over his nub, gathering up crackling sparkles of static charge and letting them dissipate in his mouth as he watched Quark squirm and whine, thighs tensing and heels digging into his back as the scientist tried to bring his valve closer to Skids’ retreating glossa. 

 

“Skids, I’m disappointed in you.” He froze, peering over Quark’s shivering frame at the mech leaning over the imposing desk to stare down at them. “All I can be sure of from this angle is that you’re teasing the poor mech.”

 

Skids frantically wracked his processor, trying to figure out what position would please the sadistic mech while keeping Quark from having to look directly at him. 

 

He took too long.

 

“Why don’t you bring him up here on the desk? You look so uncomfortable down there.” That voice dripped sticky sweet in his audials with the hidden threat just under the surface that made it impossible to deny him what he requested. Reluctantly, he removed himself from between Quark’s thighs, petting at his abdominal plating when he whimpered and struggled. Whether that struggle was due to the lack of stimulation, or the knowledge of where they were going was unclear, but either way he made the empty, meaningless gesture as if a few gentle touches to his plating would erase the fact that he was about to be put on display for one of the cruelest, most sadistic mechs either of them had ever met.

 

“No, no, Skids,” He paused halfway to setting Quark out on the desk, figuring the Commandant would appreciate the up close view of Quark’s expression once he was laid back so his helm was all but in the Commandant’s lap. Instead, he watched with a sinking sense of horror as the tankformer pushed his chair back, making space between himself and the desk, and spreading his knees, pointing to the floor at his feet. “Bring him to this side. You can kneel right here, and rest him on the desk so we can have the best view possible, yes?”

 

It was, unfortunately, a perfect fit, with Quark perched on the very edge of the desk, knees bent over Skids’ shoulders. Kneeling between the Commandant’s feet, his bumper tucked under the desktop in the space where the Commandant’s legs would normally be, and his doorwings fit comfortably over the other mech’s lap. A hand fit around the back of his helm, pushing him unhurriedly but firmly forward till his mouth was once again on Quark’s array, and oh, but that was  _ nice _ . That guiding hand, taking away his options, making his decisions for him. If it wasn’t for the amped up sting of  _ terror _ that was buffeting his EMF receptors from Quark’s field at suddenly finding himself optic to optic with the fearsome mech behind him, he could almost forget who it was they were stuck in the office with, and just enjoy being dominated for a little while.

 

The hand pressed a little harder, and he dug his fingers into his thighs, biting back the reflexive moan that wanted to escape. 

 

_ Focus. _ He ordered himself, suckling on Quark’s swollen node and letting the shuddering little gasps, the thighs quivering on either side of his face, the rush of heat back into Quark’s field, he let all of that wash over him, and used the scientist’s reactions as a gauge as to what he liked and didn’t like. 

 

It had the unfortunate bonus of getting him revved up. His panel slid aside, spike pressurizing into the chilly air of the office, and the next moan that bubbled up from his vocalizer couldn’t be contained, only muffled into Quark’s slick folds as he pressed his thighs together and squirmed. 

 

_ Interest/Amusement/Curiosity _ flooded the field flowing and ebbing like the tide against his back, and the hand on the back of his head pushed, just a tiny little bit, while another curled around the top edge of one of his door wings and  _ squeezed _ .

 

He pulled back, turning to press his forehead against one of Quark’s thighs and biting his lip as a shudder wracked his frame and lubricants flooded his valve, calipers cycling down needily on nothing at all. 

 

A noise overhead, and he looked up to see Quark, wide opticked, suckling on the two thick fingers pressed into his mouth, oral fluids dripping over his stretched lips and down his chin.

 

“We had a deal.” Skids croaked, squeezing his thighs together and trying in vain to ignore the slick squish of fluids that resulted in.

 

“We did. And there was no mention, anywhere in that agreement, that I wouldn’t touch, take my own fill of pleasure, was there? I’d suggest getting back to work, though. Unless you  _ don’t _ want him prepared for your spike? It makes no difference to me if he cries out in pleasure or pain.”

 

Quark’s hands found his when he stroked the mech’s thighs soothingly, and he fit their fingers together, pressing a message of apology and reassurance into his palms though he didn’t honestly know if the other mech spoke hand or not.

 

A single glyph was returned to him, hesitant touches of fingertips to the backs of his knuckles, the press of two fingers against one of his, a twist of the pad of Quark’s thumb into the crease of his palm, all adding up into the single glyph that meant ‘trust’. But not just that, it was a specific variant of the word that meant Quark had the sort of blind faith in Skids that allowed him to believe that no matter how bad things got in this room, Skids would get them out of it again, relatively unscathed.

 

That  _ terrified _ him, more than anything else that had happened in the Commandant’s office so far, more than anything he’d experienced in his entire  _ function. _

 

“Well? We can move on if you’ve grown bored-” He didn’t let the Commandant finish, curling his hands around Quark’s thighs and holding him open as he went back to work with lips and glossa and careful teeth, suckling and nipping at slick, flushed folds and that glowing node. Soon enough he felt damp fingers settle back onto his doorwing, and Quark’s voice took on a high, thready note as his hips rocked up to meet Skids’ glossa. Releasing one slim thigh, he focused his glossa on Quark’s nub once more, and slid one finger, then two, into the slick, clenching heat with little resistance. 

 

“O-oh,  _ ahh… Skids! _ ” The little scientist’s hands clutched at his helm, refusing to acknowledge the Commandant’s own hand still guiding Skids’ pace as he overloaded with a breathy little cry of Skids’ name and a rush of fluids and released charge that dissipated harmlessly on their plating. He waited till Quark’s callipers stopped cycling down on his fingers in that rhythmic clench following a valve overload before pulling his fingers free. Making optic contact with the heavily venting mech, he sucked each fluid stained finger into his mouth one at a time to clean them and savor the taste of the other mech a little longer.

 

Quark was still shaking, still gasping for cool air, when the hand on the back of Skids’ helm patted once, twice, then heavy hands were tugging him to his feet and bending him over the desk, over Quark’s small frame, and a hand reached between them, guiding his spike to the relaxed rim of the other mech’s valve.

 

“Look at him, splayed out like a well trained pleasure bot for you. My voice may nudge things along, but his reactions are wholly his own, Skids. I’d wager he’d be willing to  _ beg _ for your spike, don’t you think?”

 

Skids pushed back against the heavy frame behind him, pulling away from Quark and looking over his shoulder to snarl at the Commandant, but small hands on his bumper gave him pause.

 

“P-please...Skids,  _ please _ , spike me?” Quark moaned, biting his lip and arching his back as thin, clever fingers played with Skids’ headlight housings.

 

“Now, was that you, or  _ me _ ?” The Commandant purred in his audial, leaning into him with his greater weight and sending him pitching forward, scrabbling to catch himself on his palms before he crashed into Quark and damaged him. His spike slid into that still tight channel, calipers parting one by one around his spike, valve lining stretching taut and exposing all those charge nodes usually hidden in the pleated mesh.

 

It was an instantaneous reaction, as Quark’s optics brightened, whited out, and overload locked his frame as sparks crackled over his plating.

 

The rhythmic undulating clench of his calipers over Skids’ spike nearly pulled him over the edge into his own overload, but then fingers curled around his hips, and the hot, hard length of a pressurized spike pressed against his valve, and he froze. Motor functions, ventilations, processor, everything stalled as the Commandant leaned over his back and pressed that expressionless mask against his audial.

 

“My turn.”

 

His vents rattled back into motion first, moving from a dead stop to screaming in a matter of seconds as he buried his face in Quark’s neck, breathing deeply and biting back all but the weakest whimper as the Commandant pressed in, slowly, almost tenderly, even, but without pause for him to adjust. His calipers stretched to near their limit, the burn of the stretch balancing precariously on that thin line between pleasure and agony. The hands on his hips were twin vices, fingertips undoubtedly leaving divots in his plating, and warm, moist exvents ghosted over the back of his neck as the larger mech draped over his back finally came to a halt when there was no room left in Skids’ valve.

 

With any other partner, and the right amount of prep, Skids would have been ecstatic. He also would have been reaching down to see just how much of his partner he’d managed to take in.

 

But here and now? Horror slid greasily through his cortex as he fought to control his body’s base reactions to what it acknowledged as pleasure, regardless of who was causing it. Tears of frustration pricked at the corners of his optics, and a hot, hard lump lodged in his throat. 

 

A tiny, trembling hand patted his cheek, and he pressed a wordless kiss to Quark’s intake, trying and most likely failing to convey his gratitude to the other mech for that small gesture of support. The Commandant, either missing or choosing to ignore their little moment, wasted little time before setting a steady pace, sliding out till only the head of his spike stretched Skids’ valve rim, then pressing back in with that same slow, firm pace. Skids found himself scrabbling at the desk, clinging to the far edge to keep from being drug across Quark’s lithe frame with every one of the Commandant’s thrusts. 

 

His traitorous frame crackled with charge, and before long he had to lift his head from that dark, safe space against Quark’s throat to gasp for any draught of cool air he could find, as his fans failed to cool him any longer. As if that was an unspoken cue, he suddenly found himself upright, and then there was the disorienting feeling of a controlled fall backwards as the Commandant dropped down into his chair, with Skids splayed over his lap, legs folded to either side of the larger mech’s thighs. He flailed, reaching out for something, anything, to grab on to for balance, and had to unhappily settle on grasping the hands clutching his hips.

 

“Sing for me, Skids.” There was that voice, a purr in his audial, accompanied by a hot exvent that sent a shiver down his spinal strut. Was there compulsion in it? He fervently hoped so. In the next instant those hands clenched tighter still, to the protesting squeal of his plating buckling, and Skids found himself lifted up off the Commandant’s lap, then brought back down flush against the other mech’s plating with a resounding  _ clang _ . 

 

The new position had that thick, charged spike brushing over clusters of nodes previously left untouched, and he found himself almost deliriously happy that the other mech was doing all the heavy lifting, because he wasn’t sure that his legs could support him any longer. Despite a lack of notifications on his HUD, he felt like all the hydraulic pressure had drained from his limbs, and he was limp, doll like in the Commandant’s hands, helm falling back against those tank treads, staring sightless up along the raised barrel of a cannon towards the ceiling as he was lifted and lowered like a living spike sheath, gasping, whimpering, moaning shamelessly as his frame reacted to the stimuli despite his best efforts to the contrary.

 

Shame would eat away at his processor, but that would come later. Currently that shame and disgust with himself was just barely covered up by the layer of charge and lust building in his processor, his frame, his field, the Commandant eerily gifted at finding his every sweet spot and exploiting it just so. 

 

Something fought for attention at the back of his processor, some pertinent fact, maybe a weakness he should be noticing, exploiting, but the charge was racing along his frame now, crackling in lightning bright arcs along his plating, snapping between them, against Quark’s limp, dangling legs hanging over the side of the desk in front of them, and he couldn’t focus, couldn’t think of anything beyond the puddle of liquid of heat low in his tank that coiled into a tight little concentrated ball of pleasure the longer the mech behind him slid over those hard to find clusters that lit up his cortex and destroyed his concentration. 

 

“ _ Sing _ .” Like a switch being flipped, that one word was the catalyst that set him off, and suddenly, he was far from strutless as he arched, mouth falling open on a long, unending moan, a wordless cry as the charge skittering over his plating drew up tight beneath his armor and then expanded out with his release to ground harmlessly against the mechs in front of and behind him. Overload shorted his optics, locked his joints, and he whimpered and moaned through the Commandant’s suddenly feverish pace, each thrust drawing out the aftershocks of his own overload. 

 

When the Commandant overloaded, it wasn’t with a shout, or an oath, but with a steady, heavy exvent against the back of Skids neck as he was lifted and draped over the desk on top of Quark once more. Fluids leaked from his valve in a steady  _ drip, drip, drip _ down his thigh, but he couldn’t find it in himself to move at the moment, shame and relaxed contentment warring in his spark and keeping him motionless. 

 

“Clean yourselves up, your guards will be here momentarily to remove you to your cell.” He pushed himself off of Quark with a grunt, rolling over and accepting the rag the Deception tossed at him. Concern for Quark had him forcing himself to his feet despite the fact that he couldn’t verify he  _ had _ feet, let along legs to support himself on. His own cleanup could wait, he  _ had _ to check and make sure Quark didn’t need medical attention first. In the shameful quiet that settled on the room, he noticed, not for the first time, how  _ very small _ Quark really was in comparison to himself. Not just the sense of smallness, tightness, that came with spiking a mech that hadn’t been properly stretched, but the reality of the fact that Quark was a thin plated academic civilian who massed less than half of Skids’ frame. 

 

Thankfully, despite Quark’s displeased whine at being touched, there was no signs of damage, just the standard swollen, flushed protomesh as he gently cleaned away what evidence of their coupling that he could with just the dry rag. 

 

He was less gentle with his own array, welcoming the sting of it as he scrubbed away the Commandant’s transfluid from his valve and the insides of his thighs. He could have been handed steel wool and been just as thorough with his cleaning, and glad for the damage it would have done. The dents on his hips couldn’t be fixed, not without the proper tools, but even as he was looking around for something,  _ anything _ , to double as a shaping block that he could maybe subspace without the Commandant noticing, the door slid open to reveal the same guards that had brought him here in the first place. 

 

He bundled Quark up into his arms, snarling at the guards when they tried to remove the scientist from his grasp. The Commandant made a dismissive gesture with one hand, already focused once more on those morbid, greyed frames on his wall.

  
“Remember our agreement Skids. The sooner you repair the generator, the sooner you can leave with him.


	2. Quark

They were shoved unceremoniously back into their cell, the door slamming shut behind them with a heavy finality in the sound as Skids tripped, curling around Quark’s limp frame and shielding him from the brunt of the fall. 

 

He lay there for long moments just listening to their vents rattle and wheeze, shielding the smaller mech the way he hadn’t been able to in the Commandant’s office. Strangely enough, somewhere on the forced march back to their room, Quark’s shivering had subsided, and once Skids realized this, he also realized that now  _ he _ was the one trembling. Only  _ his _ vents were hiccuping, only  _ his _ hands shook. Only  _ his _ cheeks were streaked with optical cleanser. Shoving himself up onto his hands and knees abruptly, he twisted to hide his face in his shoulder, but those small hands were back on his plating, stroking up and down his arms even as Quark made soft, nonsense noises that were strangely effective at calming him.

 

“Vent with me, Skids.” He heard Quark say, but it was dull, like he was hearing it through heavy layers of padding or thick walls, from far off. Fingers pressed against his cheeks, gently but firmly guiding his face away from his shoulder till their optics met. “In and out Skids, follow me.” 

 

He wanted to laugh, wanted to draw him into a hug, joke about the scientist trying to take his spot as the level headed one, but that part of him was small, and withdrawn, and in heavy denial. As their vents slowly matched up, Quark’s remaining steady and Skids’ finally slowing down to something resembling normal speeds, the coil of tension in his chest slowly, painfully unwound, a relief of pressure that left him feeling hollow, scraped raw,  _ tired. _

 

“He’s going to want to do this again.” It was fact, though it hurt to acknowledge it, and to see the look of dread that ate away at the edges of Quark’s mask of calm. In an effort to take some of the power out of those words, he dug around in his subspace, a pocket that was once filled to the brim with ‘useless’ just-in-case items but now held only a single pair of tiny spectacles. 

 

“Naturally. Bullies don’t tend to back down once they’ve gotten what they want.” Was all he said, though, accepting his glasses back from Skids’ outstretched palm and fixing them delicately to the well worn groove over his nasal ridge. 

 

His apology froze in his vocalizer, his ventilations picking up speed once more as he balled his hands up into fists on his thighs. All at once, everything hit him in a wave of overwhelming disgust, and it was like his hydraulic fluid drained away in a flash. Suddenly, Quark’s hands on his frame were the only thing keeping him upright as he struggled to find the words in his processor that could come even remotely close to how sorry he was for dragging Quark into all of this.

 

“Don’t you dare.” 

 

He looked up, straight into Quark’s brilliantly lit optics. The mech was on the verge of his own breakdown, everything about him screamed barely hanging in there, but still his hands were steady and his voice firm as he spoke. And made Skids wonder if he wasn’t an outlier, himself.

 

He’d heard of mechs that could read processors, after all.

 

“This is  _ not _ your fault, Skids.”

 

“But-“

 

“I swear to all that is good in the world if the next words out of your  vocalizer aren’t ‘You’re right, Quark, how could I be so self centered and blind as to think that  _ I  _ was the cause of all this’, I  _ will _ smack you.”

 

There was a long moment of silence where Skids reset his optics once, twice, three times.

 

And then laughter. The kind that sent optical cleanser streaming down his cheeks, and made his intakes ache, but in a good way, like scrubbing out a wound till it bled clean, the poison flowed out of him with his shaky, overly loud laughter, and he slumped forward to cling to the baffled scientist and ride out the giggling fit that followed.

 

After, Quark pushed and pulled and tugged at him till he was stretched out on the floor, and curled up against his side, throwing one arm over his abdominal plating just beneath his bumper and pillowing his head on Skids’ arm. 

 

“Go to sleep, Skids. Tomorrow’s another day. Work on the generator. Get it functional. And then we’ll get out of here. Until then…we’ll get by.”

 

~~~~~

 

Quark lay awake long after Skids had fallen into recharge, staring blindly at the far wall and chewing his lip. His wrists were raw and throbbing where he’d hung from the wall between those greyed out frames. The worst part was, he couldn’t even remember how long he’d been left suspended there before Skids had come along and rescued him. All he could remember was the fluctuations of his spark as the Commandant wove emotion after falsely implanted emotion into his processor, his spark, his very being. 

 

The ache of despair and terror, so cold and dark that he begged for deactivation. Then the upswing into heat and lust so quickly he screamed from the burning pain of it in his spark. Up and down and up and down the Commandant drug him through the full range of feelings a mech could experience, all with simple modulations of his vocalizer. 

 

And then, for a few moments, blissful numbness, as the terrifying mech stepped away to his console, and spoke to a guard. For a few, sweet, confusing moments, he could enjoy being scared, knowing that it was  _ his _ fear, and not the artificial terror the Commandant toyed with. 

 

He imagined that at some point in that haze of withdrawn fear, he had most likely checked out, because the next thing he could recall was dropping down onto Skids’ warm frame, his shoulder actuators burning and his field reaching out blindly for the tightly controlled shell of his cell mate’s own EMF. 

 

There was arguing over his head, though he didn’t recall what, exactly, was said, nor his own responses to it.

 

He  _ did _ remember the feel of Skids’ hands on his frame, lifting him up, rearranging him so his legs hooked behind the other mech’s shoulders.

 

And his words.

 

_ “Shhh, I’ve got you Quark. Just relax...think about...about whoever you left behind, ok? _

 

He’d tried. For a brief, barely there moment, he’d thought of the safety of the lab, of his overzealous lab partner, of his friends back home. But then, Skids’ mouth was on his array, and heat suffused his frame in remembrance. Blushing, he hid his face in Skids’ shoulder joint, biting his lip. 

 

He’d never admit it to the other mech. Not now. How could he? Skids felt terrible about what had happened already. If Quark ever admitted to him that he harbored the kind of feelings for his cell mate that made his attention earlier in the Commandant’s office more than just bearable? He didn’t know what the other mech would do, but he could guess that the doubt and recrimination that flowed off his field in waves even while asleep? That would only get worse. 

 

But he  _ could _ commit those few moments of intimacy to memory. Even with the Commandant looming over them, teasing them, plucking at Quark’s spark with that clever vocalizer…

 

And then it hit him.

 

_ “Now, was that you, or  _ **_me_ ** _?” _

 

That wasn’t the machinations of a mech trying to seed doubt and distrust.

 

Well….it  _ was _ .

 

But it was also an honest  _ question _ .

 

What he’d told Skids had been only a half truth. He didn’t  _ blame _ his friend for what the Commandant chose to do to them. But he knew, logically, that, had he not been assigned Skids as a cell mate, more than likely, he would have been left alone to rust away, forever forgotten, locked in his alt-mode, as he’d been doing before the super learner showed up. There was something about Skids, something that interested the Commandant. He’d chosen Quark specifically to get a rise out of him, to get something that the tank-former wanted. 

 

But he’d also been using Quark for something…else.

 

He’d assumed that the Commandant’s vocal talents had been a mod, something the Decepticon had gotten installed after the war began. There were rumors all over Cybertron about how the scientists that worked for the rebellion experimented on mechs in ways that made the Institute seem tame.

 

But…what if he was an outlier like Skids? When they’d first met, he’d recognized the Commandant’s voice, through the door, but when they’d met face to face there was no recognition in Skids’ optics. He’d claimed he was mistaken.

 

But frame modifications were easy enough to come by, even so far into this war, so long as you had friends in the right places to pull strings and ‘requisition' the parts needed.

 

He lay awake in the dark, staring into the soft, warm, dark space of Skids’ shoulder assembly, mulling that thought over, till the morning cycle came, and with it, guards that gleefully flickered lights on and off and banged on doors to rouse the prisoners held within. 

 

He was left behind, when the door opened and Skids was pulled away to work. He dozed fitfully, processor still latched onto the idea that the Commandant was up to something,  _ testing _ something.

 

Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

 

~~~~~

 

Whatever it was, the Commandant clearly didn’t have time for it that day, or the next. Skids came back to their little ‘home away from home’ covered in grease and reeking of burnt wiring, but none worse for the wear, and chattering away about the repairs he’d managed. Quark listened with half an audial, nodding where appropriate, but he was distracted by the beads of coolant that clung to Skids’ plating, rolling down his bumper, down his abdominal plating towards his pelvic assembly, and heat suffused his frame, all of its own accord. 

 

Squirming only made it worse, so he bit his lip and sat still, trying to focus on anything other than his attractive roommate. No matter how often he reminded his frame that they were  _ only _ roommates, and nothing more, his traitorous interface array refused to listen. Reminding himself that although he didn’t consider  _ Skids _ a rapist, what had happened the other night _ was  _ rape didn’t help either. Not only did that not bring his willful array back into dormancy, it rattled the precariously held grip he had on his denial, the safety that stuffed his horror and revulsion at what the Commandant had done to them,  _ through  _ them, into a tight, dark little space in the back of his processor where it could be ignored, forgotten for the duration of the war at least, and the rest of his existence preferably.

 

Despite his feelings for Skids, and the confusion that this whole situation held for him, he wasn’t ready to unpack the reality of it all and examine it under the cold, harsh light of a logical reality. So long as it stayed tucked away, he could let his processor fixate on Skids, and those kind, gentle hands that gesticulated so animatedly in the air between them, and remember the feel of them on his plating, of lips against his audial, of the pulse of reassurance in that comforting field.

 

He  _ had _ to cling to that, no matter the problems it created the longer he refused to acknowledge the truth. In the end, they would either escape and go their separate ways, or they would die here. But for the here and now, he could pretend. Could imagine that they were elsewhere, in an apartment in that lovely little building down the way from his lab, and Skids was telling him not of repairs to a generator Quark wasn’t positive  _ actually _ ran a teleporter, but of his day at some mundane job. They could settle down around a table together, or on a couch in front of a vid screen. Quark could bring him fuel, Skids would surprise him with energon goodies he picked up on the way home and stashed in subspace, and they could have a pleasant night together, just enjoying one another’s company. 

 

Weeks passed this way, with Quark sinking deeper and deeper into his fantasy. 

 

Even the days where he was removed from his cell and brought to the Commandant’s office weren’t hard to bear, when he could drown out all but the buzz of his voice, and focus on the tender, loving attention paid to him by Skids. The commandant’s voice became background noise while Skids made love to him, not on the floor or the desk, to put on a show for a sick and twisted mech, but on their sinfully plush berth, so soft and warm and safe. The long walk back to their cell with Quark’s limp frame cradled to Skids chest turned into walks to their berth room after Quark fell asleep on the couch. Or that one memorable fantasy in which Skids carried him to their private oil pool and lovingly cleaned his frame of the day’s grime.

 

Oh how he missed being clean.

 

But in his fantasies, they were always clean. Always safe, and happy, and healthy.

 

And every day he lived in his happy little fantasy world, the real world and all it’s problems got a little bit further away.

 

The little voice in the back of his processor warned him that things would only be worse when reality came crashing down on him but he honestly couldn’t find it in himself to care, smiling at Skids as the other mech laid him carefully out on the threadbare bit of padding he’d been gifted by the Commandant after their most recent performance.

 

Except, was it a little cot in their cell? Did his frame ache from the attentions paid to it today, from the things Skids had been ordered to do? Did his valve hurt from the overly large toy the Commandant had made Skids use on him, despite Skids’ protests about Quark’s frame tolerances? Despite his own weak, pathetic attempts at begging?

 

Or was it their soft, plush berth, with his frame aching in that pleasant, overworked way that felt so good even as it hurt? Hadn’t they just spent a fun night seeing just how far Quark could be stretched open before pleasure tipped over that fine line into burning pain? So maybe he hadn’t told Skids to stop when it had started to twinge, thinking he could power through it. It was worth it, wasn’t it? Despite the aches and pains, he was spending time with the mech he cared about, and tolerances could be learned.  _ Would _ be learned, always, thanks to Skids’ gift.

 

And that little voice in the back of his processor clamored for attention, begged him to open his optics and see the truth.

 

Another small, insignificant part of him marveled at the way he floated, hazy and half awake, through his days, and wondered if this was what it was like to be on drugs.

 

The rest of him, quite honestly, couldn’t bother to be concerned.

 

And then came the day, when Skids bounced into the room, all bright, excited smiles and energetic frame language. Door wings were cocked at a higher, wider angle than he’d ever seen before, plating loose and relaxed for the first time since his arrival.

 

“Quark! We’re going home!” Skids sounded so  _ thrilled.  _ But…weren’t they already home?

 

Then the door scraped open once more, and their guards  _ (Guards? Why did they need guards?) _ stepped inside, and the Commandant after them.

 

“One last night here Skids, while we run our safety checks and get the roster prepared for the first run in the morning. Which means one more night in my office, if you please.”

 

Skids bundled him up in his arms, pressing their foreheads together.

 

“Hear that, Quark? Just one more night of this. You’ve been so strong, so brave…you can handle one more night of me touching you, right?”  _ Why did he sound so sad, so disgusted with himself? Of  _ course _ Quark could ‘handle’ his touch, he  _ loved _ his touch! They had all the nights in the world to spend touching one another, right? _

 

“No, Skids. Tonight, I think  _ I’d _ like to join in. You’ve been stretching him so nicely for me.”

 

And like a bucket of iced cleanser dropped on his helm, he was jerked harshly back into reality. Wide, bright optics meeting the burning embers of red behind that mask, and his carefully constructed fantasy came crashing down around him.


	3. The Commandant

By the time they were brought back to his office, and the guards dismissed, the Commandant noted the Quark seemed much more aware of his surroundings, and much more  _ involved _ in them. He’d quickly grown bored of the submissive, doll-like creature that had become the norm in their interactions. 

 

Behind his mask, he smirked, taking a perverse pleasure in the way the small scientist now quivered in his shadow, optics wide behind those decorative lenses and ventilations coming faster and shallower as he stepped forward. Skids was right beside the smaller mech, glaring up at him, demanding he be left alone, but oh no….no, dear Skids. You’re in no position to make demands. Not anymore.

 

Taking hold of the lithe mech by one shoulder, he steered him away from the door before pushing down till he dropped to his knees, optics widening further still and glitching on and off several times. 

 

Skids shuffled over, shame ripe in his field, when summoned, and dropped to his knees next to Quark, glaring up at him from beneath his crest, that idiotic matrix tattoo glittering in the light of his narrowed optics. 

 

Pulling a pair of cuffs, the old fashioned kind, no field dampeners or neural relay cuts, just bare metal, out of his subspace, he leaned down, committing to memory the thick, cloying feel of  _ denial _ in Quark’s field, and the whimpering little moan that shook his shoulders and brought tears to his optics, catching the light like smooth little crystals.

 

“Now, now, Quark. Skids has been doing  _ all _ the work. It’s only fair that you help him out, yes?” He practically purred every word, drinking in the way he trembled, optics flashing, moan morphing into something different as the full weight of his power hit the scientist’s spark. Skids, next to him, frowned, rubbing his chest plate.

Hmm…looked like he still had some tweaking to do.

 

Quark’s chin dropped to his chest plate, optical shutters squeezing shut and the little droplets of of optical cleanser pooling on the backs of his lenses, but he held his hands out, wrists pressed together. The whole thing was repeated when he pulled out the spider gag, taking Quark’s chin in one hand and fitting the metal ring behind his dentae with the other when Quark reluctantly parted his lips. He tilted the mech’s helm this way and that, admiring the soft dimpling where the protrusions of the gag pressed into his cheeks, the way his glossa pushed ineffectively at the ring holding his mouth open. He couldn’t quite help the desire to slip his thumb in, press against that slick, warm glossa, pinning it down and holding Quark in place even as he struggled and coughed. Already, oral fluids pooled in his mouth, threatening to spill over his stretched lips at the slightest provocation, and he was surprised to find he desired greatly to see what the mech looked like, like that. Debauched, filthy, put in his place, on his knees, serving the Decepticon cause the best way an Autobot possibly could.

 

A sidelong glance at Skids showed the mech glaring daggers at him, fists balled up on his thighs. It was a good thing the super learner couldn’t figure how to affect others the same way that he was slowly perfecting, himself. 

 

Rising back up, he admired his handiwork for a moment longer before stepping away. Releasing his spike to the cool air of the room with a soft sigh, he pulled his chair over and settled into it, letting his legs drop open in a vulgar display he’d normally never consider. But the sight of Quark obediently, fearfully shifting forward when beckoned, optics locked on the thick, heavy length of it bobbing between them, it was worth the vulgarity. 

 

Even better was the way Skids continued to glare at him even as he snugged up behind the smaller mech, hands reaching round front to trail down Quark’s thin chest plates, down between his thighs to his hidden, very much offline array.

 

All that was needed was a politely worded suggestion of moving on to the main event without any preparation to startle them both into action. Small, soft, trembling hands rested hesitantly on his thighs, as Quark leaned forward, terrified optics focused on his spike. A single tentative press of his lips to the head, leaving a gloss of fluids behind when he pulled away again, lips parting on a gasp as Skids’ clever fingers found the manual override for his panel and then his external node. 

 

He was content for a moment to drink in the sight of Quark, lips glistening with his fluids, leaning back against Skids and slowly starting to rock his hips up against those devilishly talented fingers, but only until the scientist’s optics started to glaze, a smile curling his mouth as he clearly slipped back into whatever fantasy he’d been living in to escape reality. Curling one hand around the back of  that cylindrical helm, he pulled forward, tiny hands catching against his thighs and trying to push back as he was guided firmly, unwaveringly, back to his spike.

 

“Open.” One word, a rumbled command, but pain wove through his vocals, and Quark winced, fingers curling into claws against his thighs. Obediently, the shining lips parted and little hands pattered against his thighs, a panicked staccato, as he was pulled forward, lips stretching around his shaft. Vents rattled and wheezed, and Quark flailed under his hand, throat flexing desperately around the head of his spike, trying to force the intrusion out.

 

“ _ Primus _ , he’s choking, let him go!” Skids snarled, both hands coming up to wrap around his wrist, the fingers of one coated in a thin sheen of lubricant. 

 

“That’s fine, Skids…perhaps his valve will take my spike better?” Quark made a garbled noise, optic shutters clenching tight behind his glasses, minutely shaking his head in the negative. The fists on his thigh uncurled, bound hands petting at his plating as if to placate, and the roll of one shoulder, nudging at Skids till he leaned back on his heels once more, watching unhappily as the smaller mech fought his frame, vents hiccuping as he pulled back. Oral lubricants dripped down his chin as he gasped for a klik before swallowing around the thick length once more.

 

“Skids?” A simple prompt, one that earned him a sullen glare before hands slid around Quark’s midsection and went back to work.

 

Overload crept up on him, even with the clumsy, inexperienced, overwhelmed ministrations. His only real question was, did he want to mark the little mech? Make him swallow his transfluid, one more humiliation in a long line of them? Or…

 

He rose to his feet, pushing Quark back and sending the both of them sprawling with surprised yelps to the floor. 

 

Skids squirmed, trying to carefully remove himself from under Quark’s trembling, confused frame, but froze when he knelt at his pedes, humming a soft arpeggio in the back of his vocalizer. 

 

Quark squeaked, thrashed, when he fit one massive hand around his slender middle, flipping him over onto his hands and knees atop Skids, belly rubbing against the super learner’s so far uninterested array. With little effort he pushed with one hand that spanned the little mech’s upper back, pressing on his shoulders till his face was resting against Skids’ chassis, cuffed hands trapped beneath his chest, aft in the air. The fear was palpable,  _ delicious,  _ as he palmed that bared array, slick and heated from Skids’ ministrations. Teased a single finger against the tight clench of his valve. 

 

The little mech moaned, fear and heat a heady mixture in his field, a different sort of delicious high that he was quickly growing addicted to.

 

He could press in, enjoy the too tight clench of that vice-like grip around his spike, savor the pain and fear overwhelming his prey. But that would be over far too quickly for his liking. He found with no small amount of surprise that he wanted to continue drawing this thing between the three of them out for as long as he could. Already, the countdown loomed, the end drawing nearer and nearer with every passing moment, and that made up his mind for him. His spike slid between slick, warm folds, rubbing against the rim of his valve, against his exterior node, causing the scientist to jump, try and scramble away with no success. He didn’t speak as he removed his hand from Quark’s back, and pressed against his thighs, pushing them together and thrusting into the tight little space between them. 

 

A warning squeeze to those slender thighs, wordless instruction to keep them where they were. He removed one hand back to the nape of Quark’s neck, relishing the way his spinal strut arched into a surprisingly flexible curve as he pressed down.

 

He wouldn’t overload like this, no. He had more self control than that, but he could enjoy the friction, and the way Quark squirmed and jumped every time his spike rubbed over the other mech’s swollen node. And he could  _ certainly _ enjoy the beautiful twist of Skids’ face, warring between sullenness, horror, revulsion, and was that a  _ hint _ of jealousy he detected? That little twitch of envy on his faceplates alone was worth the hours they’d spent with the small, cringing little mech. He’d much prefer it be Skids himself squeezing his thighs together, letting him slide between them, but no, this was to serve a  _ purpose _ , and for that to happen, it had to be Quark beneath him.

 

Before long, Quark was whimpering, burying his face in Skid’s frame and clearly trying very hard to not rock back against him, despite the charge building in his frame. For a klik he toyed with the idea of modulating his voice again, seeing how high he could ramp up the scientist’s lust and inhibition. It would certainly make for a more enjoyable show, to see the contrast of Quark writhing, moaning, begging for his spike, and Skids beneath him, horrified, guilt-ridden, envious of the Commandant’s position. 

 

In the end, he decided against it, preferred the barely there restraint in Quark’s frame and field, the torment, the confusion, the denial that he could possibly be getting revved from the Commandant’s attentions.

 

It was when the smaller mech’s field was a maelstrom of conflicting emotions and the charge was leaping visibly between seams that he slowed his thrusts, and angled his hips just so, so that the next slide through slick folds allowed the tip of his spike to catch on the rim of that clenching valve. Quark yelped, scrambling forward as best he could, pinned as he was between and Skids and himself, even as the lust in his field spiked, and crackles of charge snapped against the Commandant’s fingertips on his hips.

 

After a few testing little nudges, slipping out to rub against his anterior node, only to pull back and repeat the whole process over again, he wondered if it would even be  _ possible _ to grow bored of tormenting the little mech.

 

And then he slid into that tight, clenching heat, pinning Quark with one hand on the back of his helm and the other tight around one hip when the mech arched, something halfway between a moan and a yelp ripping free of his static laden vocalizer as the Commandant moved inexorably forward, not stopping till his pelvic plating was flush with the other mech’s. 

 

And  _ oh _ , but it was difficult to remain still then, not with the way Quark’s valve rippled and clenched around his spike, almost painfully tight. The little mech’s shoulders shook, begging,  _ pleading  _ with him _ , _ words muffled by the gag, to please stop, even as the revulsion in his field was being leeched away at the edges by the ever present lust/pleasure/want/need. Skids was stroking along his back, whispering useless platitudes to him, praising him for his bravery, his strength, promising him it would be over soon.

 

He could see when the little mech twisted to look at him over his shoulder, that oral lubricants were smeared down Quark’s chin, and over Skids’ plating. His optics were wide and liquid, streaks of cleanser running down his cheeks to mingle with the glistening fluids dripping over his stretched, stressed lipplates. A quick twist of his fingers had the gag falling away, and although Quark took a brief moment to stretch his jaw, an audible pop accompanying the lateral shift, soon enough coherent pleas were pouring from his vocalizer, laced with static and moans as the Commandant pulled out, pressed back in again, going painstakingly slow, so the other mech could feel his spike drag over every charge swollen sensory bundle in his valve, feel the way his lining pleated and then stretched tight once more.

 

Skids shifted beneath them, arms wrapping protectively around Quark’s back as the smaller mech writhed and moaned and begged between them. He couldn’t stop the grin that tugged at his scarred mouth, didn’t bother. Who would see it behind the mask, anyway? The wicked glee that pulsed through his field, however, was tangible, and instead of reigning his field in as a proper Decepticon would do, he pushed it out, overwhelming the other mechs’ EMF receptors with it. Quark, spark tuned to take pleasure from any stimulation at this point, gasped, optics flaring, spinal strut arching into the most beautiful curve. The tight little valve rippling around his spike in overload threatened to pull him over the edge as well. Skids shuddered, optics squeezing shut and a scowl creasing his face, cracking the paint of that ridiculous matrix tattoo. 

 

Leaning over, burying Quark’s insignificant frame between their larger masses, he slowed his pace long enough to reach out with one hand, cupping Skids’ cheek, thumb pressing mockingly tender against the bit of gold paint. It flaked and cracked beneath the pressure, the protective sealant having been worn away at some point to leave the decorative paint exposed to the elements. When Skids opened his optics, they blazed with the fury of a mech pushed to their limits, teetering on the edge.

 

“I win, Skids.” He could pinpoint the exact instant when his voice spun its spell, latching onto Skids' spark and  _ twisting _ it. The way ecstasy bled into his expression, overtaking the hate and revulsion, even as the disgust remained in his optics, was something the Commandant would  _ never _ forget. A particularly vicious swipe of his thumb pulled away even more of the flaking paint, and he shuddered, overload washing over his frame in a crackle of energy that had the scientist trapped between them twitching weakly, tiny hands pressed against his chest plate. 

 

Leaning in again, enjoying the frantic squirming beneath his frame as Quark’s daze finally wore off and the panic set back in, he pressed his mask against Skids’ cheek in a mockery of a kiss, going so far as to make the accompanying sound when the outlier’s field flared wildly, as if trying to physically remove him.

 

Chuckling, he pulled back and levered himself up onto his hands and knees once more. The face he made when he saw the mess that had been made of the smaller mech was thankfully (or was it regretfully?) hidden, though Quark still flinched away when he swiped his fingers through the sticky mess that smeared over his own abdominal plating from Quark’s unwilling overload.

 

He flicked the droplets of fluid clinging to his fingertips away, watching them splatter over the tiny mech’s trembling plating with a grin hidden behind his mask. Rolling his shoulders as he rose to his feet, he turned away. Watching Skids fawn and fret over the useless thing held no interest for him.

 

The report that had finally finished compiling on his work station, on the other hand…

 

Tapping a few keys brought up the information he’d been waiting for, and a chuckle escaped his vocalizer, laden with his dark pleasure. Behind him, he could imagine them both drooping under the sudden weight of it, trembling, fearful for no explicable reason.   

  
“The transport is repaired. As promised, you’ll leave in the morning.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested in a fic of your own, please check [here](http://the-sparkbeat.tumblr.com/post/139583432468/price-list-ficlet-100-500-words-1000) for information :)


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